War of the Twins (42 page)

“No water again,” Caramon said quietly.

Reghar scowled. Though the general’s voice was carefully expressionless, the dwarf knew that he was being held accountable. Realizing that he was, in large part, to blame, didn’t help matters. The only feeling more wretched and unbearable than guilt is the feeling of well-deserved guilt.

“There’ll be another water hole within half a day’s march,” Reghar growled, his face setting into granite. “They were all over the place in the old days, like pock marks.”

The dwarf waved an arm. Caramon glanced around. As far as the eye could see there was nothing—not tree, not bird, not even scrubby bushes. Nothing but endless miles of sand, dotted here and there with strange, domed mounds. Far off in the distance, the dark shadows of the mountains of Thorbardin hovered before his eyes like the lingering remembrance of a bad dream.

The Army of Fistandantilus was losing before the battle even started.

After days of forced marching, they had finally come out of the mountain pass from Pax Tharkas and were now upon the Plains of Dergoth. Their supplies had not caught up with them and, because of the rapid pace at which they were moving, it looked as if it might be more than a week before the lumbering wagons found them.

Raistlin pressed the need for haste upon the commanders of the armies and, though Caramon opposed his brother openly, Reghar supported the archmage and managed to sway the Plainsmen to their side as well. Once again, Caramon had little choice but to go along. And so the army rose before dawn, marched with only a brief rest at midday, and continued until twilight when they stopped to make camp while there was still light enough to see.

It did not seem like an army of victors. Gone were the comradeship, the jokes, the laughter, the games of evening. Gone was the singing by day; even the dwarves ceased their stirring chant, preferring to keep their breath for breathing as they marched mile after weary mile. At night, the men slumped down practically where they stood, ate their meager rations, and then fell immediately into exhausted sleep until kicked and prodded by the sergeants to begin another day.

Spirits were low. There were grumblings and complaints, especially as the food dwindled. This had not been a problem in the mountains. Game had been plentiful. But once on the Plains, as Caramon had foretold, the only living things they saw were each other. They lived on hard-baked, unleavened bread and strips of dried meat rationed out twice per day—morning and night. And Caramon knew that if the supply wagons didn’t catch up with them soon, even this small amount would be cut in half.

But the general had other concerns besides food, both of which were more critical. One was a lack of fresh water. Though Reghar had told him confidently that there were water holes in the Plains, the first two they discovered were dry. Then—and only then—had the old dwarf dourly admitted that the last time he’d set eyes on these Plains was in the days before the Cataclysm. Caramon’s other problem was the
rapidly deteriorating relationships between the allies.

Always threadbare at best, the alliance was now splitting apart at the seams. The humans from the north blamed their current problems on the dwarves and the Plainsmen since they had supported the wizard.

The Plainsmen, for their part, had never been in the mountains before. They discovered that fighting and living in mountainous terrain was cold and snowy and, as the chief put it crudely to Caramon, “it is either too
up
or too
down.”

Now, seeing the gigantic mountains of Thorbardin looming on the southern horizon, the Plainsmen were beginning to think that all the gold and steel in the world wasn’t as beautiful as the golden,
flat
grasslands of their home. More than once Caramon saw their dark eyes turn northward, and he knew that one morning he would awaken and find they had gone.

The dwarves, for their part, viewed the humans as cowardly weaklings who ran crying home to mama the minute things got a little tough. Thus they treated the lack of food and water as a petty annoyance. The dwarf who even dared
hint
he was thirsty was immediately set upon by his fellows.

Caramon thought of this and he thought of his numerous other problems as he stood in the middle of the desert that evening, kicking at the sand with the toe of his boot.

Then, raising his eyes, Caramon’s gaze rested on Reghar. Thinking Caramon was not watching him, the old dwarf lost his rocky sternness—his shoulders slumped, and he sighed wearily. His resemblance to Flint was painful in its intensity. Ashamed of his anger, knowing it was directed more at himself than anyone else, Caramon did what he could to make amends.

“Don’t worry. We’ve enough water to last the night. Surely we’ll come on a water hole tomorrow, don’t you think?” he said, patting Reghar clumsily on the back. The old dwarf glanced up at Caramon, startled and instantly suspicious, fearing he might be the butt of some joke.

But, seeing Caramon’s tired face smiling at him cheerfully, Reghar relaxed. “Aye,” the dwarf said with a grudging smile in return. “Tomorrow for sure.”

Turning from the dry water hole, the two made their way back to camp.

Night came early to the Plains of Dergoth. The sun dropped behind the mountains rapidly, as though sick of the sight of the vast, barren desert wasteland. Few campfires glowed; most of the men were too tired to bother lighting them, and there wasn’t any food to cook anyway. Huddling together in their separate groups, the hill dwarves, the northerners, and the Plainsmen regarded each other suspiciously. Everyone, of course, shunned the Dewar.

Caramon, glancing up, saw his own tent, sitting apart from them all, as though he had simply written them off.

An old Krynnish legend told of a man who had once committed a deed so heinous that the gods themselves gathered to inflict his punishment. When they announced that, henceforth, the man was to have the ability to see into the future, the man laughed, thinking he had outwitted the gods. The man had, however, died a tortured death—something Caramon had never been able to understand.

But now he understood, and his soul ached. Truly, no greater punishment could be inflicted upon any mortal. For, by seeing into the future and knowing what the outcome will be, man’s greatest gift—hope—is taken away.

Up until now, Caramon had hoped. He had believed Raistlin would come up with a plan. He had believed his brother wouldn’t let this happen. Raistlin
couldn’t
let this happen. But now, knowing that Raistlin truly didn’t care what became of these men and dwarves and the families they had left behind, Caramon’s hope died. They were doomed. There was nothing he could do to prevent what had happened before from happening again.

Knowing this and knowing the pain that this must inevitably cost him, Caramon began to unconsciously distance himself from those he had come to care about. He began to think about home.

Home! Almost forgotten, even purposefully shoved to the back of his mind, memories of his home now flooded over him with such vivid clarity—once he let them—that sometimes, in
the long, lonely evenings, he stared into a fire he could not see for his tears.

It was the one thought that kept Caramon going. As he led his army closer and closer to their defeat, each step led him closer to Tika, closer to home.…

“Look out there!” Reghar grabbed hold of him, shaking him from his reverie. Caramon blinked and looked up just before he stumbled into one of the strange mounds that dotted the Plains.

“What are these confounded contrivances anyway?” Caramon grumbled, glaring at it. “Some type of animal dwelling? I’ve heard tell of squirrels without tails who live in homes like these upon the great flatlands of Estwilde.” He eyed the structure that was nearly three feet tall and just as wide, and shook his head. “But I’d hate to meet up with the squirrel who built this!”

“Bah! Squirrel indeed!” Reghar scoffed. “Dwarves built these! Can’t you tell? Look at the workmanship.” He ran his hand lovingly over the smooth-sided dome. “Since when did Nature do such a perfect job?”

Caramon snorted. “Dwarves! But—why? What for? Not even dwarves love work so much that they do it for their health! Why waste time building mounds in a desert?”

“Observation posts,” Reghar said succinctly.

“Observation?” Caramon grinned. “What do they observe? Snakes?”

“The land, the sky, armies—like ours.” Reghar stamped his foot, raising a cloud of dust. “Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That.” Reghar stamped again. “Hollow.”

Caramon’s brow cleared. “Tunnels!” His eyes opened wide. Looking around the desert at mound after mound rising up out of the flatlands, he whistled softly.

“Miles of ’em!” Reghar said, nodding his head. “Built so long ago that they were old to my great-grandfather. Of course”—the dwarf sighed—“most of them haven’t been used in that long either. Legend had it that there were once fortresses between here and Pax Tharkas, connecting up with
the Kharolis Mountains. A dwarf could walk from Pax Tharkas to Thorbardin without ever once seeing the sun, if the old tales be true.

“The fortresses are gone now. And many of the tunnels, in all likelihood. The Cataclysm wrecked most of ’em. Still,” Reghar continued cheerfully, as he and Caramon resumed walking, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Duncan hadn’t a few spies down there, skulking about like rats.”

“Above or below, they’ll see us coming from a long way off,” Caramon muttered, his gaze scanning the flat, empty land.

“Aye,” Reghar said stoutly, “and much good it will do them.”

Caramon did not answer, and the two kept going, the big man returning alone to his tent and the dwarf returning to the encampment of his people.

In one of the mounds, not far from Caramon’s tent, eyes
were
watching the army, watching its every move. But those eyes weren’t interested in the army itself. They were interested in three people, three people only.…

“Not long now,” Kharas said. He was peering out through slits so cunningly carved into the rock that they allowed those in the mound to look out but prevented anyone looking at the outside of the mound from seeing in. “How far do you make the distance?”

This to a dwarf of ancient, scruffy appearance, who glanced out the slits once in a bored fashion, then glanced down the length of the tunnel. “Two hundred, fifty-three steps. Bring you smack up in the center,” he said without hesitation.

Kharas looked back out onto the Plains to where the general’s large tent sat apart from the campfires of his men. It seemed marvelous to Kharas that the old dwarf could judge the distance so accurately. The hero might have expressed doubts, had it been anyone but Smasher. But the elderly thief who had been brought out of retirement expressly for this mission had too great a reputation for performing remarkable
feats—a reputation that almost equaled Kharas’s own.

“The sun is setting,” Kharas reported, rather unnecessarily since the lengthening shadows could be seen slanting against the rock walls of the tunnel behind him. “The general returns. He is entering his tent.” Kharas frowned. “By Reorx’s beard, I hope he doesn’t decide to change his habits tonight.”

“He won’t,” Smasher said. Crouched comfortably in a corner, he spoke with the calm certainty of one who had (in former days) earned a living by watching the comings and—more particularly—the goings of his fellows. “First two things you learn when yer breakin’ house—everyone has a routine and no one likes change. Weather’s fine, there’ve been no startlements, nothin’ out there ‘cept sand an’ more sand. No, he won’t change.”

Kharas frowned, not liking this reminder of the dwarf’s lawless past. Well aware of his own limitations, Kharas had chosen Smasher for this mission because they needed someone skilled in stealth, skilled in moving swiftly and silently, skilled in attacking by night, and escaping into the darkness.

But Kharas, who had been admired by the Knights of Solamnia for his honor, suffered pangs of conscience nonetheless. He soothed his soul by reminding himself that Smasher had, long ago, paid for his misdeeds and had even performed several services for his king that made him, if not a completely reputable character, at least a minor hero.

Besides, Kharas said to himself, think of the lives we will save.

Even as he thought this, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You are right, Smasher. Here comes the wizard from his tent and here comes the witch from hers.”

Grasping the handle of his hammer strapped securely to his belt with one hand, Kharas used the other hand to shift a shortsword he had tucked into his belt into a slightly more comfortable position. Finally, he reached into a pouch, drew out a piece of rolled parchment, and with a thoughtful, solemn expression on his beardless face, tucked it into a safe pocket in his leather armor.

Turning to the four dwarves who stood behind him, he said, “Remember, do not harm the woman or the general any more than is necessary to subdue them. But—the wizard must die, and he must die quickly, for he is the most dangerous.”

Smasher grinned and settled back more comfortably. He would not be going along. Too old. That would have insulted him once, but he was of an age now where it came as a compliment. Besides, his knees creaked alarmingly.

“Let them settle in,” the old thief advised. “Let them start their evening meal, relax. Then”—drawing his hand across his throat, he chortled—“two hundred and fifty-three steps.…”

Standing guard duty outside the general’s tent, Garic listened to the silence within. It was more disturbing and seemed to echo louder than the most violent quarrel.

Glancing inside through the tent flap opening, he saw the three sitting together as they did every night, quiet, muttering only occasionally, each one apparently wrapped in his or her own concerns.

The wizard was deeply involved in his studies. Rumor had it that he was planning some great, powerful spells that would blow the gates of Thorbardin wide open. As for the witch, who knew what she was thinking? Garic was thankful, at least, that Caramon was keeping an eye on her.

There had been some weird rumors about the witch among the men. Rumors of miracles performed at Pax Tharkas, of the dead returning to life at her touch, of limbs growing back onto bloody stumps. Garic discounted these, of course. Still, there was something about her these days that made the young man wonder if his first impressions had been correct.